


Habits

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver offers to switch things up to Percy’s complete lack of amusement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

It’s too bright in their bedroom in the morning, and sometimes Oliver is pretty sure Percy bought white curtains for that reason: to deny him the chance of every happily sleeping in. 

Of course, Percy’s sleeping soundly right next to him, sunshine or no, but after the pounding he took into the mattress last night, it’s no surprise. Oliver snickers to himself and stops just short of cuddling right into his husband. The only reason Percy let them go so many rounds, so late and hard, is because it’s his day off today. He can _finally_ sleep in, after a grueling every-day, two-week stint at the office, and Oliver loves him just enough to let him have that decompression. 

So Oliver pushes out of his own side of the bed, hissing at the cold hardwood floor. He scampers off in the direction of the kitchen, naked from head to foot. The air in their apartment’s lukewarm, but not quite enough for Oliver to want to linger. He pours himself some water out of the sink, downs it, puts the empty glass on the table and heads off before returning a second later. He’s still learning to clean up after himself, even after all the years they spent dating. His ears are still ringing from the last row over it, so he gives the glass a quick, manual rinse the absence of his wand. It goes right back into the cupboard he took it out of, and then it’s back to the bedroom. 

He means to crawl under the sheets, but instead he stops at the end of the bed, knee hitting the mattress, eyes glued down. Somehow, in his rush for water, he missed the view the first time around. Either that, or Percy’s shifted in his sleep. He’s lying on his stomach with his face turned in the pillow, the white blanket draped over his back and scrunched up right above his ass, which rises, bare and beautiful, out in the open for Oliver to stare at.

So he does. No matter how much time he spends with Percy, how many occasions he spends licking, slapping, or fucking that ass, it still draws him in every time. With a small noise muffled in the pillow, Percy shifts, and his taut ass cheeks twitch, almost jiggling under Oliver’s hungry gaze. He has half a mind to jump on it, flatten Percy down and fuck him _hard_ , wake him up screaming, but the same mental argument Oliver’s been having all week creeps back in. Every time he means to bring it up, Percy does something too cute to resist, and Oliver ends up fucking him the same way they always do. But he’s been gearing up to actually _talk_ about it, and he forces himself to look away from Percy’s perfect rear. 

Oliver, of course, is hard by now. It doesn’t take much with him. But he forces himself to climb calmly onto the mattress anyway. When he sidles up to Percy, he’s careful not to hump Percy’s freckled hips. He wriggles under the same blanket and kisses Percy’s neck, but he doesn’t suck and bite and _ravish_ like he wants to. He just nuzzles into Percy’s warm skin, until Percy stirs, mumbling something incoherent before a long, languid yawn. 

He looks over his shoulder at Oliver, who’s still littering him in kisses, and mutters, “What do you want?” His eyes look a little hazy without his glasses, but maybe that’s just the sleep. Oliver snuggles into him almost obnoxiously, leaning half over Percy’s back to kiss him, and Percy turns away with a tiny smile like avoiding the slobber of a dog. 

Oliver sticks his own ass up, a little more sun-kissed and tanned than Percy’s, maybe not as round and soft, but hopefully still enticing. He wiggles it obviously and purrs in his most sensuous drawl, “I want you to fuck me.”

Percy just snorts. He falls back to the pillow, facing away from Oliver again, and yawns, “It’s my day off; let me sleep.”

“I just wanna play around a bit,” Oliver whines. Normally, he’d stop the second Percy told him off, but now that he’s finally offered to bottom, he at least wants the conversation. Assuming Percy got that. He keeps trailing eager kisses over Percy’s thin shoulders, and Percy squirms beneath him, probably tickled. 

Finally, Percy sighs and grumbles, “Fine. You can fuck me if you want.” But he still lies where he is, utterly limp, and that’s not what Oliver meant. 

“No, I... I meant you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Take me.”

Percy’s eyebrows scrunch down in confusion. He looks over his shoulder at Oliver, who smiles hopefully, thinking about time, _see_ : he _is_ a good mate, even if he waited forever to say it. He thought about the exact same thing on their wedding night, but he was tipsy on Firewhiskey then and Percy looked too handsome in his dress robes not to take all over their hotel room. He encouraged it, too, always does, and now Oliver feels oddly alone, because Percy clearly has no idea what he’s talking about.

After a minute or two of staring into each other’s eyes, Percy wrinkles his nose and says, “I don’t really want to.”

Maybe after everything, Oliver should’ve expected that, but somehow he winds up blurting, “What’s wrong with my ass?” And then Percy just laughs at him. 

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” Except he doesn’t look sorry, and Oliver still feels vaguely offended. “Look, I... I can do it. If you really want to. I just prefer it the other way around.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it makes all the sense in the world, and Oliver should’ve know that.

Oliver can’t help muttering, “That sounds like less fun.” Because it just _does_.

There is no better feeling than sinking into Percy Weasley’s ass. None at all. Oliver would swear his life on that, but Percy looks thoroughly uninterested. He pushes up onto his elbows, half turned to look at Oliver, and he makes one of those exasperated sighs he does so well. If Oliver didn’t love Percy so much, he’d be supremely annoyed: it took a lot to offer to switch up their whole arrangement, and Percy’s acting like _he’s_ being the silly one. 

“Oliver,” Percy starts, in that I-love-you-but-listen way of his, “I spend all my time working hard. You know that. When I come home, I work more, taking care of you and the house—I do all the cleaning, manage the finances, and do practically all the cooking. I even have to remind you about your practices just to keep you from getting fired. And then there’re all the papers I write on what little of my own time I have. When it comes down to us messing around... I just want pleasure. I don’t want to work anymore, and frankly I’d rather you did it.”

“Except that sex isn’t work.”

“Yes it is.”

For another minute, they continue staring at one another, and Oliver’s mind is silently imploding. Trust Percy to conflate sex with work. When Oliver doesn’t say anything, because he can’t think of anything, Percy shrugs again and rephrases, “I’d just rather receive than give. Besides, I like routine. I’m a creature of habit. You know that.”

He knows that to death, but he still doesn’t _get_ it. That’s not even how it works. He has half a mind to launch into vivid detail of how Percy could top and still have Oliver do all the ‘work,’ but instead he winds up saying, “You don’t get it.”

“I thought you liked topping.”

“Well, of course I do. I just feel guilty.”

Rolling his eyes, Percy actually has the gall to grumble, “So stop being such a bloody Gryffindor.”

Then he has the nerve to settle back down, flat along the mattress, even as Oliver splutters, “ _You’re_ a Gryffindor!”

“And I’m not moving,” Percy says simply, eyes shut. His ass lifts up enough to slide the blankets down his spine, and he waves it once in offering, immediately drawing Oliver’s gaze. He practically hums, “You can fuck me if you want, but that’s that.”

Oliver, staring solely at Percy’s pert ass, is caught halfway between being infuriated and horny. He has the vague idea of trying again, rolling Percy over and offering to mount his cock and do everything while Percy just lies there, but he gets the idea that if he tries, he’ll be sleeping on the couch for a week. And their marriage is too new to start that trend already. Percy drops his ass back down: argument over. It leaves Oliver wondering if the invitation’s off, but then Percy’s thighs part and his eyes open again, lazily watching Oliver decide. 

Oliver’s cock decides for him. He tells his head he _tried_ : nothing after this is his fault. He was a perfect angel. And he’s hard as hell from staring at the perfect bottom of his favourite bottom. 

With a failed sigh, Oliver crawls his way to Percy’s rear, throws one leg over to straddle it, and starts to rub his cock through the dry crack. He can still see the stains of the mess he caused last night, and he sticks out his hand to request: “Lube.”

Percy tosses him the small bottle from the nightstand, grinning a self-satisfied smirk. Another point for Weasley, though, Oliver decides as he pours an ample amount down his hard cock and the groove of Percy’s ass, he might have to call this one a draw.


End file.
